


Who I Am To You

by Emily_F6



Series: Peter Parker Prompts [24]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Peter Parker Whump, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_F6/pseuds/Emily_F6
Summary: Prompt: The Avengers comfort Peter when Tony is hurt
Relationships: Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Peter Parker Prompts [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866505
Comments: 12
Kudos: 312





	Who I Am To You

Peter had never seen Tony Stark hurt before.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. When they’d met, the man had had a faint bruise around his eye. May hadn’t seemed to notice, or if she had, she hadn’t said anything, and Peter hadn’t wanted to be rude. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t really known Mr. Stark yet, and hadn’t really thought it was his place to say anything. Then, when he’d returned with Peter after the airport fight in Germany, he’d held himself stiffly, wincing every once in a while when he’d bent his arm or shifted in his seat. And once again, Peter had been silent about it. Hadn’t wanted to call attention to it when they obviously weren’t there yet.

And then he’d been outright told that they weren’t there yet, and, fighting his rising embarrassment, Peter had fled.

Since the fight with the Vulture during his homecoming dance, things had gotten better Mr. Stark and Peter. It had started with Mr. Stark having him over to the Compound once a month for suit upgrades or repairs, or to reinstall his parachute after he’d accidentally set it off while trying to jump off of the Empire State Building, which had been great until the parachute had deployed. Then, after four months of that, Peter had gotten hurt.

Not dying hurt, to be clear. But the bullet had gone through his thigh and he’d found himself laid on out a rooftop in a growing pile of blood. And...okay, he was embarrassed to admit it, but he’d freaked out. He hated to remember that night...hated to remember Mr. Stark’s voice demanding to know if Karen was screwing with him, and then his own voice, choked with tears and barely more than a whimper. 

“Mr. Stark? It hurts...please...I can’t get up…”

Immediately, the man’s voice had softened. “Okay...hey, just...hold on, Underoos. I’m on my way, okay? You’re fine. You’re...you’re fine.” 

Peter had tried to believe him. Had struggled to stay awake as Mr. Stark had continued to talk to him in that same soft, low voice for the full ten minutes that it had taken him to fly there. Peter didn’t remember much after that, but he thought he must have said something. Must have talked to the man as he’d wrapped a belt around his upper leg in a makeshift tourniquet and then scooped him up to carry him back to the compound.

That’s when Mr. Stark had changed. Peter had no idea why...wasn’t sure if he’d said something, or if maybe his injury had been worse than he’d first assumed. Because when Peter had woken up, Mr. Stark had been there, face pale and drawn, something like fear in his eyes. “Pete? Kid, you with me?”

When Peter had assured him that he was, Mr. Stark had reached out, gripping his hand in a grip that would have been crushing had Peter not been enhanced. “How long have I been out?”

“Two days,” Mr. Stark had informed him in a near whisper, glancing over at something on the other side of the room. Peter had followed his eyes and had found May laying in a recliner, a blanket pulled up to her chest. “Helen Cho has been looking after you. Her team had to do surgery to get the bullet out...you’re on bedrest for a few more days. But, she said you were probably going to survive.” He had said that last part with a tiny smirk that hadn’t quite met his eyes.

After that, Mr. Stark had been...well, not just nicer. But...he’d been around more. More available. He’d texted Peter regularly, even video chatting sometimes. He’d invited Peter to stay the night at the compound a few times, letting him know that he was always welcome to use his room, and that yes, he did have a room there. And when the Rogue Avengers had been pardoned and several of them had moved back in, Tony had introduced him to them with an arm around his shoulders, holding him close.

In all that time, Peter had never seen Tony Stark truly injured. He’d seen him sick with a cold one day when he’d come to the Compound after school, and had found Sam Wilson forcing a bottle of cold medicine on him that Mr. Stark had been doing his best to swat away despite looking like death warmed over. Peter had offered to make him them smoothies, and Mr. Stark had accepted with a soft, fond smile, laying back on one of the sofa cushions. 

Sam Wilson had laughed under his breath as Peter had poured a full serving of cough syrup into the berry smoothie, then adding extra yogurt to try and cover the taste. Then Peter had taken it to him, perching on the sofa and trying to look contrite. “Mr. Stark...my head’s really killing me. Do you mind if we stay up here for a little while before we go down to the lab?”

The man had immediately nodded, reaching out with a hot hand and trying to take Peter’s temperature. “Sure, kiddo. You don’t feel hot.”

“That’s because you have a fever,” Sam had muttered from the kitchen, taking a drink of his own smoothie which Peter had made him in the jumbo blender. 

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll feel better after a few minutes. Can we just watch a movie or something?” Mr. Stark had nodded, gesturing to the TV.

“Sure thing, Pete. Fri, turn the lights down, would you? And play whatever episode of Star Trek we left off on.”

Mr. Stark had been asleep in eight minutes, and Sam had given him an approving nod. “Not bad, kid,” he’d whispered with a grin. “You want to come down and join us for some training? I’ll bet I could get Steve and Nat to join in.”

Peter absolutely had. And so, after gently placing a blanket over Mr. Stark and asking Friday to turn off the TV and the lights, he had. Over the next few weeks, during which he’d joined the Avengers for training several more times, Peter had started to find himself more and more comfortable around the former strangers. Once or twice, Steve and Sam had even showed up in the middle of his patrols, lending a hand and signing autographs for starstruck Queens citizens.

Their first mission had been a month before this one, all of them attempting to take down a Hydra base. It had gone well, all things considered, with scrapes and bruises their most serious injuries. And it had even been kind of fun. So when Steve had invited him to come along again, Peter had been excited. Never in his wildest dreams had Peter imagined that Mr. Stark could be hurt. 

The Hydra man had gotten Peter with a knife stuck in his boot. He’d been fighting three of them at once, and the knife had swiped him in the side. Peter had barely felt the injury in the moment, instead focusing on webbing the rest of them up. Only after, when Steve was asking if everyone was okay on the comms and Mr. Stark was approaching Peter, his helmet flipping up, eyes on his side, had Peter felt the white-hot pain. Grimacing, he’d pressed a glove covered hand to his side, and the Iron Man suit had opened up, allowing him to step out and reach for Peter. “Woah, kid. That looks kind of deep. Are you…”

Peter’s senses hadn’t gone off. 

The man hadn’t been aiming for him.

The sound of the gunshot had been deafening, and Peter had spun around, watching as if in slow motion as the man had shifted the gun, aiming at him this time. And, moving so quickly that he could barely process it himself, he’d shot a web and surged forward, catching Mr. Stark just as the man had crumpled. The bullet had entered his side, right above his hip, and Peter had lowered the man to the floor as carefully as he could, forgetting about his own would and pressing his hand to Mr. Stark’s. 

Even then, the man had been comforting him. “I’m okay...it’s okay, Spidey.” He’d groaned, then, and suddenly time had seemed to blur. Sam had been there, and Wanda too, and Steve had been gripping Peter’s shoulder, pulling him to his feet and turning him around. 

“Spidey? Spider-Man? Look at me, son,” Steve had urged, finally catching Peter’s attention. He’d looked up from his gloves, which had been covered in blood which slightly stained the already red fabric, meeting Steve’s eyes and wondering how long the man had been talking to him.

“Cap...Captain...he…” Peter had started to choke out, tears falling under the mask.

“Hey, take it easy. Tony’s fine. He’s going to be fine.”

Peter had shaken his head. “Steve...it’s my fault...he was…”

“No. No way. Not your fault. These things happen. We need to get back to the jet, okay? We need to get Tony back to the medbay.”

And somehow, Peter had found himself here. Sitting on the ledge of the compound roof, still wearing the suit and the mask and still crying. Mr. Stark was hurt. The man had looked up at him, eyes wide and stunned and pained, and he’d tried to comfort him. And it was his fault. If he’d been faster...if his senses had just gone off...Peter could have prevented this.

“You need to let me stitch that up.” The words startled him, and he spun around, nearly toppling off the ledge as Sam Wilson stared at him with huge, worried eyes. “Pete!” 

Peter reached down, sticking his hands to the concrete. “I’m fine.” His voice came out shaky and weak, and Steve shook his head. 

“No you’re not. You’re still bleeding. Not to mention you almost just fell off the damn roof. Get off that ledge,” he ordered, tone softer than his words as he held out a hand for Peter that he took, letting the man pull him down off the ledge, bracing him when his side gave a furious stab of pain. “Come on, we need to clean that out and get it sewed up.”

Peter followed the man down to the elevator, then the medbay where a small room was apparently waiting for him. On the bed was a bag of clothes that Sam picked up and placed onto a chair. “Alright. Suit off and hop up on the bed,” he ordered, voice still gentle. Peter obeyed without thinking, pressing a hand against his chest, then ripping off his mask, leaving it all in a pile on the floor.

Sam winced at the mess of blood on his side, giving Peter a hand up, then paused as he looked at his face. “Kid, he’s going to be fine. Helen’s with him. That’s why I’m the one on suture duty.”

Peter sniffed, trying to stop crying, and gave a weak, half-hearted nod. Sam sighed, grabbing the suture kit, then soaked a rag with what smelled like alcohol. “Alright. Lay back. This is going to suck, but I’ll try to be quick. Okay?”

He nodded, trying to be brave. Trying to stop the tears, but the moment the rag touched his side, Peter’s back arched and he gasped, more tears joining the ones from before, and Sam rested a hand on his chest. “I know. Shit kid, do I know. Apparently your metabolism is even weirder than Steve’s so none of this medicine is going to make it better, so I’m just going to have to move fast.”

As if saying his name had summoned him, Steve Rogers stepped into the room, took one look at Peter, and stationed himself on his other side, pressing a hand against his chest and placing the other one on top of Peter’s. “Stitching him up without anesthetic? That’s cold, Wilson,” he said, voice forcibly light as he squeezed Peter’s hand. 

“Not my fault you people can’t use normal medicine.”

“How you holding up, son?” Steve asked as Peter squeezed his hand hard enough to crush a normal person’s in response to a needle being shoved into his side.

“This sucks,” he choked out, not sure if he was talking about the pain or Mr. Stark getting hurt or being a superhero in general. Regardless, Steve nodded. 

“Yeah, don’t I know it. One time, when Bucky and I were with the Howling Commandos, this asshole cut the absolute fuck out of me.”

“Geez, old man, watch your language around the kid,” Sam teased, and Peter managed a weak smile despite the lightheadedness that had started to take over, making his head spin.

Steve just waved him off, quickly replacing the comforting hand on Peter’s chest, applying just enough pressure to help him keep still. “As I was saying, we got separated from the rest of the unit and Bucky had to sew me up. So he gave me his belt to bite down on…”

Steve’s words were drowned out when Sam hit a particularly tender part of Peter’s skin and a cry escaped from his gritted teeth, eyes slamming shut, and the man paused for a fraction of a second before continuing to sew him up. “Almost done, kid.”

“He gave me his belt to bite down on and started to stitch me up. The thing is, though, Bucky couldn’t sew a straight line to save his life. So I had a crooked scar for two weeks before the damn thing healed up.”

“Probably didn’t help that you people hadn’t figured out how to sterilize a wound yet,” Sam muttered, pulling the thread tight.”

“I was in World War II, asshole, not the Civil War.” 

Peter gave a weak laugh that turned into a sob as Sam stabbed him again. 

“Alright, that was the last one,” Sam murmured, and Peter’s body relaxed onto the bed as he cleaned the wound one more time and taped a gauze pad over it. “How’s that?” Peter gave a weak nod and Sam patted his shoulder. “You did good, kid. Nothing like when I had to stitch up Clint a few weeks back. He cried way more than you, and he had anesthetic.” 

Steve chuckled before squeezing Peter’s shoulder. “How do you feel, Pete?”

“Fine. How’s Tony?”

Sam was the one to answer. “I’ll go check, okay? Stay still so you don’t pop any of those stitches.”

And then Peter was alone with Steve who stood, moving over to the sink and grabbing a rag that he ran under some water before returning and gently wiping Peter’s face. It would have been embarrassing if Peter hadn’t been so full of anxiety...he saw it every time he closed his eyes, Mr. Stark’s face losing color. The blood seeping out from between his own fingers and staining his gloves.

“It wasn’t your fault, Peter,” Steve repeated as if he could read his mind. 

“He was getting out of the suit to check on me.”

“Yeah, well, he’d do the same for any of us. We didn’t know there were any more soldiers hiding on the base. It was a mistake. That’s all.”

“My spidey sense didn’t go off.” It took Peter a moment to realize that he’d never said that phrase out loud, and the look on Steve’s face reminded him why. He could feel his cheeks heat up, a dull flush covering his face, but Steve gamely tried to hide his smile.

“Your what?”

“It’s like...a sense that tells me when I’m in danger,” he muttered.

“But you weren’t in danger, Peter. He was.”

“I know! But...it still should have gone off!”

“Peter, you can’t keep everybody safe all the time. You just can’t. Especially not on a mission like this. It’s why we all train so much and why we have the comms and why we learn to trust our instincts. This life is dangerous. This job...it isn’t always easy.”

“But he’s my…” Peter cut himself off, dropping his eyes and trying not to cry again. 

Steve gripped his hand. “I know he is, Pete. I know.” And for a long moment, the two of them sat in silence, hands squeezing one another's, until Sam returned, pushing a wheelchair. 

“What…” Peter started, but Sam spoke, cutting him off.

“Tony’s awake and asking for you.” Peter started to shoot out of bed, but Steve held on to his shoulder. “Ah, ah…” Sam warned. “You’re going to get up, slowly and carefully so I don’t have to sew you up again, put those sweatpants on, and then you’re going to take the wheelchair to his room.”

“I don’t need…”

“You’re going to use the damn wheelchair or Steve is going to sit on you, I swear to god you’re just like Tony.” The words made Peter smile a little despite himself, a warmth filling his chest. Mr. Stark was okay. He was asking for him! 

“But if he sat on me, wouldn’t that hurt my side too?”

“Shut up and get in the chair,” Sam ordered, pointing a finger, and Peter laughed a little as Steve helped him sit up. Moving carefully, Steve helped him slide off the bed, grabbed the pants for him so that Peter could pull them on over his boxers, then lowered him into the wheelchair, which Peter still felt wasn’t necessary, but if this was what he had to do to see Mr. Stark, so be it. Sam wheeled him down the hall, Sam strolling beside him, and then they were in Mr. Stark’s room.

The man was laying in a bed just like the one Peter had been stitched up in, a blanket pulled up to his chest, and when Peter entered, his whole body seemed to relax, his face softening. “Hey, Pete. You okay, kiddo?”

Immediately, the warmth in his chest was gone, and Peter felt a hot shame fill him once more as he nodded, dropping his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, and then, before Mr. Stark could speak again, he blurted out the words he knew he needed to say. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark!”

The man blinked at him in confusion, and behind him, Sam sighed and then wheeled him right up to the bed. “Alright. Well, your kid is just like you, Stark, because he’s obviously not going to listen to us. Maybe you can talk some sense into him,” the man said before ruffling Peter’s hair, and then both he and Steve were gone.

“Pete...why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.” Mr. Stark’s voice was soft and almost hesitant. And totally sincere. Peter looked up at him in confusion.

“You got shot because I…”

“Woah, let me stop you right there.” Mr. Stark held up a hand, shaking his head and looking surprisingly stern. “I got shot because I got out of my suit without checking the area first. I assumed that we’d taken them all out and that bit me in the ass. Almost literally. But you did nothing wrong. Okay? Nothing. You did a great job. Webbed up all those guys. Followed orders. All that jazz. You did good. I made a mistake. But I’m fine. And you’re fine too. Right?”

“But my senses didn’t go off! They should have gone off!”

“Why would your senses go off if you weren’t in danger?”

“Because you were! And you’re…” Peter trailed off, still not knowing how to say it. Still not knowing the right word. But Mr. Stark’s eyes went soft, a gentle smile covering his face as he reached a hand out. 

“Come here, Pete,” he urged, scooting over just a little with a wince as he captured Peter’s hand. The boy stood, moving carefully so as not to tear any of those stitches that Sam had worked so hard on. Mr. Stark lifted the covers, and without stopping to think if they were there yet, Peter lay gingerly beside him, resting his head on the man’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around him. The man took a deep breath, then pressed his lips to Peter’s hair. “You did a great job. I’m proud of you. You can’t control your weird danger sense, buddy. I’m just glad it tells you when you’re in danger.”

“Still got stabbed,” Peter grumbled, eyes closing now that the adrenaline was fading. His body seemed to know, now that he was wrapped in a blanket and Mr. Stark’s arm, that he was safe. That it was okay to rest.

“Yeah, well, you were fighting three guys. You can’t win ‘em all, kiddo.”

“But you can,” Peter insisted, because he needed it to be true. He needed Mr. Stark to be able to win them all. Every battle. Every fight. Forever. Beside him, the man chuckled softly.

“Let’s hope so. Now how about we get some sleep, huh? When we wake up, we’ll order dinner and call your aunt. Sound good?”

Peter nodded, but before he could open his mouth to reply, he was already asleep.”


End file.
